


Memory

by Gemmiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And More Angst, Angst, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, not a major character death but close, self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1309108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years after Castiel returned to Heaven for good, Dean still hasn't forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Written on the seventh anniversary of my soulmate's death.

In the night, Dean dreams of a hand in his, a warm body curled up against his beneath the covers. It’s too real to be just a dream. It’s a memory, imprinted on his skin, etched into his flesh, burnt into his bones. In his nostrils he can smell Castiel’s scent—something like flowers in a thunderstorm, roses and ozone and the fresh odor of summer rain. The fragrance of emerald-gold leaves unfurling, of brightly hued petals opening, as the sunlight breaks through the clouds. 

Dean sighs happily, breathing it in deeply, and his hand closes tightly, clinging to what he once loved, what he still loves. His fingernails dig into his own palm, and he awakens to the realization that his hand is empty. The motel room he’s in doesn’t smell like flowers in the rain, or of leaves spreading out in the sunshine, but like cheap carpet deodorizer and air freshener-- sterile, dead scents that burn his nose and inadequately conceal other, less pleasing fragrances.

But for his body, curled into a ball beneath the covers, his bed is just as empty as his hand. Just as it’s been since Cas went back to Heaven seven years ago, slamming the Pearly Gates behind him. Just as it will always be, from now till the day he dies. Because nothing can ever replace Castiel in his bed, or in his life. He can’t imagine wanting anyone that way ever again.

Castiel is all he wants. And he can never have his angel again.

He lies there in the darkness, blinking away moisture from the corners of his eyes, and mutters a prayer, brief but heartfelt.

_Cas, I miss you._

He’s pretty sure Castiel can’t hear him, not with the gates of Heaven padlocked for all eternity. But just in case Cas is still listening, he has to say it. He can’t help saying it. The words rise from his mouth without volition, drawn from the deepest part of him, just as they are every night. 

Regardless of whether or not Cas can hear his prayer, he certainly can’t reply. Just like the rest of the angels, he is lost to Dean, lost to humanity. There is no answer, only the silence of the summer night, heavy and thick and oppressive.

Dean sighs into the empty darkness, then rolls over, burying his face in the pillow, breathing in the harsh fragrance of laundry detergent, trying to let the artificial odor drown out the memory of a love lost, and of a hand he’ll never hold again.

But when at last he falls back into a restless sleep, he dreams of lightning and rose petals and gentle raindrops and unfurling leaves.

And of a warm, loving hand holding his.


End file.
